


Lost Dogs

by orphan_account



Series: Orphan Black Writing Prompts [1]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Sarah, Alison, and Cosima are asleep Kira observes the scene and finds one clone left out. Based on prompt by Sirsoz</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SirSoz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirSoz/gifts).



> A/N: Okay, so prompts are actually hard to write. I hope I did this right. Thank you Sirsoz for the prompt, I hope this is similar to what you had in mind.

The living room is quiet and peaceful. A single wisp of smoke remains from the candle flame flickering hours before. A hill of wax dries beside the candlestick. Outside, the leaves match the decorative orange pumpkins scattered around the house. A wavering, soft pink ray of morning light outlines the silhouetted hills in the horizon. 

My mother sits on the couch as if she were awake. Her hands lay loosely intertwined on her lap in a grasp that has long lost purpose. The coffee mug she held now lay on the carpet, spitting dark coffee on the floor. Her sisters mirror each other as they lay beside her, knees curled to their chest. Auntie Alison snores lightly as her cheek compresses against Mother’s shoulder. Her hands wrap around Mother’s arm, pressing for warmth. Auntie Cosima lay identical to Alison, except her glasses hang unsteadily over her nose. She licks her lips and takes slow, heavy breaths. They had talked for hours, of issues deemed too great for my ears. I sat on the staircase, cloaked in darkness, and listened to their voices—as soft as the orange flame licking the candlewick.  
Now they lay asleep, exhausted by issues too deep to solve but too dark to ignore. Sleep now cradles their mind, relieving them from the curse of age, if only for the moment. Now they lay in comfort of each other’s arms—peaceful and quiet. All except for one. 

A dark figure lay curled in the corner, isolated from the bundle on the couch. Cloaked by darkness, she is nearly invisible except for the pale gleam of her forearms crossed over her knees; the early morning rays filtering in through the window illuminate the fringe of her curly blonde hair—making it look as if golden wisps of spider webs were dangling in the air. She notices me as I walk down the stairs and her head rises slowly, cautiously. Her face is solemn and holds the dejected air of a dog in a cage. 

When Mummy left, Mrs. S used to take me to the pound all the time. She would hold my hand as I ran my fingers over the cold, metal bars of the cages. She would tell me that all the lost pups would find the right home one day, and that I was a safe pup in a loving home. But the dogs in the cages never looked hopeful; they knew nothing of the love that would come. All that was known for sure was that they live locked in a cage; maybe they wondered why they were caged, maybe they resented it, and maybe they accepted it—having no other life to compare with the misery. Each dog reacted differently to the cage—some crashed their bodies against it, baring their teeth and snarling with maddened rage, some howled with all their might and crowded the room with their fear; other dogs lay still, staring silently at the gray emptiness in front of them with tails fit furtively between their legs. I could feel the warmth of Mrs. S’ palm, and I could see the love in her smile, but my fingers felt cold against the cage. I wonder if those dogs, those that were adopted, still feel trapped in their cage.  
I extend a single hand, palm facing downward and fingers loosely hanging.

“Helena…” I whisper, and I hear her rustle gently. After a moment, she extends her neck to nuzzle my hand with her cheek. I can see her eyes now; dark moons in a white sky. 

“Yes, angel?” She asks in reply. Her voice wavers with the softest vulnerability. 

“Are you okay?” I ask. There is a moment of silence before she answers me quietly.

“No,” she murmurs. I move my palm to cup her cheek. 

“Can I help?” I ask. Her eyes break from mine, and she stares silently at the darkness behind me. “Do you think Mummy could help?” I ask and watch for her response. Slowly, her shoulders inch up to her cheeks and then collapse back to her side. The heaviness of her pain falls on my heart, and I move my hand to stroke her hair. 

I take her hand and she rises with her hand clasped around mine. 

Once standing, she towers over me stiffly with the hunched posture of someone who is more used to crawling than anything else. The morning light now filters in with yellow beams, and I walk through them guiding Helena behind me. Her grip on my hand tightens when I reach Mother. I pat Mum’s forehead with my free hand until her eyelids are fluttering. Her body startles awake before her mind, and she has me in her protective grasp before she can open her eyes. 

“Kira, what is it? What’s wrong?” She whispers quickly, but her voice cracks with grogginess. 

“Mummy, it’s okay, I’m okay. I have a question,” I say, giggling softly as she blinks sleepily at me, for a moment utterly uncomprehending. 

“What?” She asks and I lean in close, cup my hand over her ear, and whisper to her. 

“Mum, did Helena ever live in a pound?” I ask, and pull away to see her response. She looks even more confused than before. Her brown eyes are wide and full of concern.

“What did you say?” She asks and I tap her forehead to catch her attention; I lean in once again to whisper in her ear.

“I think Helena feels alone, and I think she’s sad,” I say, and almost immediately, I feel Mother’s grip on me loosen. I lean back and watch as she processes the information. After a moment, she leans back and squints at Helena, who stands behind me, stock-still and looming, like a scarecrow. She groans and shifts, making both Alison and Cosima readjust sleepily. She opens her arms. 

“Come here, Helena,” she mutters and Helena shoots from my grip into her sister’s arms. Mother’s face contorts as Helena steps on her toe and pulls at the soft flesh of her side while trying to clamber onto her lap. Eventually, everyone settles down once again but the positions have all changed. Alison lay curled on the arm of the couch, hugging a pillow; Cosima has curled up into a ball on the other side of the couch, with her arms intertwined close to her chest. Mother sits with her head reclined on the cushion behind her, with her legs spread to relieve the weight of the new addition: Helena. Helena lay curled on Mum’s lap—her face nuzzles the crook of Mother’s neck and her combat boots pressing into the cushion beside her other leg.

As I walk up the staircase to my room, I hear Mother speak to Helena softly: “You have a home now.”

Together, they lay like that until the broad rays of the day touch their faces.


End file.
